Precious Things by Kelly Doust Read Free Book Online Page B

panels inserted with handmade pieces of organza-lined French lace. Ribbons crisscrossed the waist and bust, and the snowy velvet-covered buttons cinched the puffs of fabric at each sleeve. Only the neckline was imperfect. Its frayed edges looked ragged, as if the collar had been wrenched away with violence.
    As Aimée stood looking at the dress, taking it in, the air seemed to fizz with portent. The gown is awaiting its collar , she thought.
    She closed her eyes, and it came vividly back, the story told to her again and again by Nounou. There it was, the scene in her head: at the foot of the château’s central staircase, Maman lay by its marble steps in her blue cotton nightdress. Already cool to the touch, her left leg jutted out sideways at an unnatural angle. An aureole of blood formed an awful crown around her dark head. Kneeling beside her, Father gripped at Maman’s hand, his face a living death mask. Maman’s eyes remained open, staring up towards the roof, unseeing and glassy.
    The servants had encircled Maman and Father. Their heads bowed, they stood quietly, their eyes on the ground in respect for their master’s silent grief. Maman’s groom, Terence, whom she had brought with her to the château upon her marriage, stood just outside the circle, tall and strong, his arms sinewy and hard from years of training horses. Tears coursed down his face. The servants loved her , Nounou said. Amandine was always kind to them.
    Maman fell down the steps in the middle of the night, Nounou told her. Her death a tragic accident. But why did she leave her bedchamber without even a candle to guide her way? Wouldn’t Father have heard her leave their bed and urged her to take the lantern? And how had she hit her head? Secretly, Aimée felt responsible. She must have called out, in a nightmare, and her mother had sprung out of bed to comfort her. But why did she falter at the staircase instead of reaching her room?
    Aimée slid to her knees before the dress and held it to her face. She envisaged Maman, stroking her cheek, her hand as soft as the satin of the dress, whispering words of comfort.
    â€˜Maman, help me,’ she whispered into the dress’s folds. But her mother remained silent.
    Aimée sat back on her heels, feeling hopeless and desolate. Until that moment, she hadn’t even realised she’d forgotten the sound of her mother’s voice.

    The next morning Aimée awoke in the darkness before dawn, feeling painfully stiff from her feverish ride the evening before. She had tossed and turned most of the night, Gaston’s dark face filling her dreams. Today , she kept thinking each time she woke. Today I will be married.
    Just then, a thought came to her like a blow – she was suddenly wide awake. The book of poetry, she still needed to return it. Throwing a gown over her nightdress, Aimée lit a candle and hastened to her sewing parlour. The candle flickered and glowed, glinting off the shadowy sequins and satin folds of her mother’s wedding dress. It hung like an empty ghost where Faustine had left it, awaiting the collar’s attachment.
    Aimée felt beneath the cushion of her chair and sighed in relief. It was still safely hidden: the Rossetti. But it needed to be returned to the library, she couldn’t risk leaving it behind. Even the thought of Father discovering her secret, long after she’d left, filled her with anxiety. And much as she wanted, she couldn’t take it with her. Her face flushed as she thought about a chambermaid unpacking it from her valise. Or what if Bernard discovered the slim volume and asked her about it? No, it had to be returned. She could slip down now, take the key and be done before any of the servants were awake.
    As she padded downstairs, clutching the book against her chest, a thought occurred to her – so audacious and striking in its simplicity that she almost stumbled, clutching at the banister for